. . .

Hans calls a svart-elf named Joffun into his parlor. Joffun’s all tense like a frightened cat.

“I haven’t been bad,” Joffun says.

And after a moment, “Please don’t sharpen me.”

“I don’t sharpen elves,” says Hans.

“Don’t whisk me, neither.”

Hans smiles thinly.

“I am old,” says Hans. “I am at the limit of my strength.”

Joffun snorts a laugh. He makes a gesture as if to brush away bad fortune. After a moment he realizes that Hans isn’t joking. He smiles, gleefully, like it’s his birthday; then he pales, like he’s just seen a crack in one of the pillars that holds up the cavern’s sky.

“Um,” he says.

“That is all,” Hans says. “That is all there is to it. That is why I have called you in. I can no longer keep them all back. Errors shall rage against my principles; all of the bonds I have forged shall break.”

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